


Mythic

by sunflowerwonder



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Friends With Benefits, Godhood AU, M/M, Sburbian Mythos, Sexual Content, What If: They Didn't Travel into the Future and Instead Stayed with the EctoBabies, ancient cultures, but before that, essentially, marriage proposals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 19:25:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9457190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerwonder/pseuds/sunflowerwonder
Summary: Jake is warm against you but it’s temporary. The two of you will find each other in bouts of loneliness spurred by the passing of generations and the constant ebb and flow of the sun.





	

**Author's Note:**

> More archiving from [Tumblr](http://dirkar.tumblr.com/post/152326510506/the-world-is-over-500-years-old-when-you-finally) for your consideration. 
> 
> Inspired by [this AU](http://dirkar.tumblr.com/tagged/sburbian-mythos) developed with Khemi and Janestrider on Tumblr.

The world is over 500 years old when you finally feel whole again.

Jake is warm against you but it’s temporary. The two of you will find each other in bouts of loneliness spurred by the passing of generations and the constant ebb and flow of the sun. He’s impossibly affectionate but he belongs to the universe the way a pet owner belongs to their disgruntled cat. He belongs to you the way a cooling breeze belongs to sunburned skin.

When you make love, though, he’s your everything.

He rarely seeks romance, rarer sex. Not even with the girls, not even with the selection of millions now populating your little planet, not even when the rest of your group rises and falls and rotates relationships with each other alongside the constant tick of years: a numbing rhythm of boredom over pancake breakfasts and unspoken knowledge that the eight of you were in this for eternity.

He was too busy being joyous and terrified but above all enamored with the world around him to waste time on the likes of finding a partner. You wished you had such passion to stuff the ever dredging years with.

He curls around your arm. You blink, grounded from your thoughts.

“You want to give it another go?” he asks. His voice is so soft. The two of you have found refuge in the seclusion of a meadow untouched by human or troll or carapace. He smells like crushed grass.

“I’m tired,” you murmur, pressing your nose to his cheek. “I can appreciate when a man’s got an ass that just won’t quit, but it appears I may require a slight reprieve. Can you call up the local cloud bank and give me a rain check?”

Jake snorts. “That’s a good one.”

“Huh?”

“Your metaphor. It was classier than usual. Remarkably straightforward for your standard roundabout ways,” Jake says. Then he laughs. The sound plucks at your heart and you feel your cheeks heat against your will.

“What?” you say, pulling back. “Can’t a man tell another man he doesn’t want to take him on a shotgun roadtrip to bangtown two times in a row without being accosted with giggles?”

“I wasn’t talking about the old bedroom tangle-tango, chap,” Jake smiles, breathing the words out between another fit of laughter. Your face falls and your blush deepens when his words hit you, mouth twisting in embarrassment.

“Then what—”

“You and me,” he says. “Let’s give it another shot. A good college try.”

“I don’t think that’s—”

“Dirk.” His voice is so firm. When did his voice get firm? “Things are different now. We are no longer the haphazard messes of lanky teenaged appendages we once were. We’re older, wiser. We’re, well—”

“Gods,” you whisper.

“Precisely.”

You look to him, eyes so open, so unrestrained by tinted glass and shoddy personas.

“I love you,” you whisper. You never stopped, but you’re not sure you should say that.

“Oh, Dirk,” he replies, pressing soft lips to your forehead. “I know.”

 

\---

 

Jake has the type of face that when caught from the right angle (the left, from behind, tilted forward and angled slightly to the side) he looks fifteen again. Rounded cheeks and dark hair and burnt gold complexion that feels as warm as it looks. He has bright green eyes that abandoned their spectacles sometime over the years. A gift for the population so that they may study magnification, vision.

You were surprised when the both of you continued to age. Something about puberty throwing its last shitfit before surrendering itself to the murky waters of conditional immortality struck you as both unnecessary and odd. It is strange to view your friends as adults. Stranger to view yourself as one.

Jake’s jawline is so sharp you hesitate to draw your fingers along it. His chest broad enough to give the most satisfying hugs. He is filled out in every way you are not, limbs thicker, shoulders stronger. (You had a conspiracy your own shoulders would never stop widening, that they were a glitch in your godtier, a theory formed after you fell asleep against a tree one morning and Roxy stacked books across them like a shelf. You awoke to chuckles and a betting pool to see how many she could fit.)

You conversely seemed to mature in widths and heights but never volume and circumference. Your lean body grew accented with the sharp angles of adulthood but not the bulk to go with it. You were jealous of Jake’s strength, Jake’s mass, Jake’s smile.

“You’re just a secret party of post-pubescent sexiness,” you tell him. He’s standing a few feet from the bed and pulling off a loose, hanging garment made from simple cloth. The edges are embroidered but other than the minor garnish it is hardly as nice as the machine sewn T-shirts the two of you have long outgrown. You were with him in the local marketplace when he purchased the ensemble, the aging shopkeeper shaking with gratitude that Jake graciously accepted but informed her was unneeded.

He has become remarkably comfortable with his godhood.

“Secret party of post-pubescent sexiness,” he parrots back to you, grinning.

“Yeah. It must have been some secret ritual bullshit because I certainly wasn’t invited to the beefcake puberty parade. Which is a damn fuckin’ travesty too because I would be absolutely smokin’ if I was physically capable of getting jacked.”

“Well I guess being a page has its potentials,” Jake says. He discards his shift on the floor and moves to lift a box from the corner. It’s made from a dark wood and its contents clink when he carries it to you.

“I’m going to assume it’s not your dick in the box.”

“Not quite,” he says. “Scooch up for me, love.”

You found yourself sliding along cool, linen sheets to sit up on the unfamiliar bed. Generally speaking, the lavish, human-built temples were crafted to house only the god each one was dedicated to. John had decided, when Roxy threw a raging party in the Temple of Light much to the horror of the oracles there, that temples should be occupied only by the god they were meant for, unless another god is invited in.

Jake’s temple is polished white marble, mica, and sandalwood. Ivy clings to every surface it can find, making the building feel like a functional ruin. Jake had invited you in, to the wide eyes of his worshipers with winged designs stitched onto their garments, and when he had closed the door to his quarters you had raised an eyebrow at the sudden rush of hushed whispers behind it.

“Honestly, they’re like parents,” Jake had huffed, kissing your neck and pulling you to the bed. Neither of you ever knew the feeling of parental doting, but it was nice to pretend.

“They gave me a gift,” Jake says now, settling the box on a simple bedside table. “Let’s open it.”

“You get gifts? I get jack shit from my people,” you reply.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have asked for your temple to be crafted atop such a blasted treachery of a mountain, then,” he says. He clicks the lid of the box open.

“I like my privacy.”

“Well I like to be within earshot of the upstanding people who dedicate their lives to me,” Jake says. “It’s only polite.”

There’s a soft clinking noise as Jake removes a hefty necklace from the box, weaved together from firm string and chunks of carved gold. It’s a clunky affair, but nevertheless an expensive one. There are symbols carved upon it. You recognize the Heart.

“Just my style,” you say, sarcasm edged with the slightest hint of a laugh.

“They really are frightfully into gold, lately—” Jake pauses, replacing the necklace in favor of pulling out a large golden circlet, accented with carved leaves and emerald gems. You see his mouth form a soft “oh.”

“What,” you say.

Jake glances to you. “What?”

“You know what. What’s up with that.”

"I don't know what you're talking about."

You stare at him. "English."

“It’s.” Jake flushes. “It’s… It’s for… Oh shucks. They’re really such a presumptuous sort.”

“Come on, what is it?”

“It’s…a wedding circlet.”

“What, like a crown?”

“Something of the sort,” Jake mumbles, embarrassed. “For brides.”

You let out a bark of a laugh. Jake scrunches his eyes and rubs at heated cheeks.

“They must think we’re betrothed. I don’t typically bring anyone back to my bedroom, you see. Goodness, this is what I get for not talking directly to them. I’ll have to explain—”

“Can I see it?”

Jake’s shoulders stiffen at the question. A stray thumb slides along a gilded leaf. “I don’t want to encourage them,” he says.

“It’s just us here,” you whisper. “Besides, it’s my gift.”

He awkwardly relinquishes the circlet to you, his fingers dragging across it when you remove it from his grasp. You inspect the craftsmanship. There’s a diligent eye for detail embedded within it.

You place it on your head and it squashes down your bangs, but is otherwise deceivingly comfortable. You brush a few strands of hair out of your face before looking back up at Jake with the glint of gold still placed upon you. He gives you only a wide gaze.

“It’s nice metalwork,” you tell him.

“I love you,” Jake blurts back.

Your own eyes widen at that and you pull the crown from your head on instinct. A few strands get caught in the joint of a leaf stem and tangle painfully as they pull at your hair. You flinch, but Jake’s hands are there only a second later, smoothing out the knot and removing the circlet from you.

“Nice detangle,” you mutter. “Like no-tears shampoo.”

“There have been some tears,” Jake says, quietly. He’s still got the crown in his hands.

“Yeah, but. No more,” you say. Your hand reaches out to hold his, the circlet laced between both your fingers. “Ever.”

 

\---

 

“They call you the God of Love here, you know,” Jake hums, pressing lips to your jaw. You’re in bed, have been all day, and other than a few quiet knocks of inquiring temple servants, undisturbed.

You snort. Feel the shift of silken wedding garments you’d failed to remove the night prior slide across your torso. The weight of marriage hangs surprisingly light on your heart. “My followers call me ‘Warbringer.’ One who gives passion, strength. God of heated temperaments and emotional breakdowns. Patron celestial entity of fighting for something at the brutal cost of yourself.” You laugh, fully now. “It’s a tad bit different than love.”

“Prince of Heart, Destroyer of Souls,” Jake hums. “You’re really just Dirk underneath.”

“Sure,” you say.

“Just so you’re aware: when someone is overcome with passion here, they joke that the Prince has struck their loins,” Jake says, grinning. “Do you have any fathomable idea how many sweet lays have been secured in your name?”

“God of Sex,” you say, brushing Jake’s bangs out of his face. “My legacy.”

“It’s a good one,” Jake replies. His lips find yours, hands shifting downwards. “Let’s see if you live up to the title.”


End file.
